Wearing Skin
by Kiwisilence
Summary: Esbern crafts a plan to live Faendal's life. Eventual de-aged Esbern/Sven slash.


Warning: nothing too graphic beyond the magic itself. More is implied and physically described.

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Chapter 1: Never Going Back

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Esbern's body was rotting.

The aging process, once slow and ignorable, had only accelerated during the recent dragon threat. As his body withered, like a crumbling burnt parchment drifting away into Skyrim's cool breeze, so did his mind.

He was not just forgetful, but had moments of blacking out. Esbern's age had once been a sign of his wisdom; an old conjurer was to be respected. Now, age was a prison for the Nord. Entire days either blurred together or were forgotten; time had became irrelevant to him beyond the sense of oncoming death, beating like a doom drum.

Esbern had no choice but to use the last tendrils of coherent thought to survive. Before everything slipped away, before his mind finally dissolved, before his body became yet another artifact lost in the dusts of Sky Haven Temple...

No one would sing of his name, for he was just now another elderly man that was meant to be locked away and ignored. His only usefulness had been to Delphine, but even she began to ignore him following Alduin's defeat. He hated her now, cursing her name in his sleep. No one cared for him now. All he had was his own dying body.

And of the Dragonborn – that man he had aided and molded into a hero, no friendship existed. The hero had saved the day, gone on to greater quests, and settled down. Not only had the Dragonborn abandoned Esbern, but also Sky Haven Temple itself. The supposed hero of Skyrim had not listened to Esbern, defending the dragon Paarthurnax. The conjurer could only wish death upon them both.

The few remaining people in Temple were forgotten memories and not the reinvigoration of the Blades Delphine envisioned. Other than Delphine, few of the Dragonborn's recruits still came. Faendal stayed the most often, staying for several days a week before venturing off to who knows what. The elf sparsely spoke to the conjurer; every time they talked seemed more out of pity than respect.

Despite their brief interactions, Esbern could recall little beyond Faendal hailing from Riverwood. At least the elderly Nord could remember that Uthgerd had used her status as a Blade to finally join the Companions.

Of the third, Esbern barely could recall her name. Illia? She had disappeared as quickly as she had been recruited. Her service to the Blades had been as reliable as any silver-tongued Imperial. Illia had needed a place to stay and somehow her standards were low enough to use this almost collapsing temple.

Regardless of the fates of Illia and Uthgerd, it was Faendal that now earned Esbern's attention. With the last of his resolve, the Nord had committed to following the elf on his return to the temple. The elf had arrived after dark. Esbern couldn't be sure on an exact time of the night, just as he couldn't be sure on the exact date when all blurred together.

Finally, Esbern heard Faendal's breath begin to steady, signally that the elf had finally fallen asleep. It would be Faendal's last independent breath.

Although Esbern was a skilled conjurer, he could not turn to the Daedra. He no longer had anything to offer...such as the Dragonborn. Therefore, his cracked, deluded mind had to improvise. Perhaps his lack of connection with reality was what had inspired him this night; no sane person could have performed the deed. The idea came to him like a vision, spoken in the ancient Aldmeris language that Esbern had only the basic knowledge of.

This magic was like necromancy, but at the same time, completely different. Esbern would not truly kill Faendal, but manipulate his flesh as if molding a clay vase. Faendal would be a avatar for Esbern to play the part of an adventurer in Skyrim. The elf would make a fine outfit, fusing itself to Esbern. Magic of the flesh would save the Nord, freeing himself from the danger of death.

Esbern swooped out from the corner of the bedroom, clasping Faendal's throat with his right hand. Up until this point, the elf had been too tired to notice Esbern watching from the shadows. The Nord paused, looking at the contrast between the elf's fair skin and his own cracked, vile hand. Faendal was beautiful, completely unlike himself.

The Aldmeris words poured from his chapped lips, beginning the spell. With a twitch of his hand, dark magic flowed through, seeping itself into Faendal. The elf's eyes opened, but the magic silenced any screams that could have came. All the elf could do was plead with his eyes as his skin slowly dissolved from his body, wrapping itself around and fusing with Esbern.

The weak like Faendal were never given fair chances in life. Hope was a fool's delusion that Esbern was too old to believe in.

The skin quickly settled, radiating a youth-like aura into Esbern. His body not only felt young, but so did his mind. He looked down at the bed, but only Faendal's skeleton remained on the bed. Everything else had been consumed in the transformation.

Esbern's very heart felt young, beating like a baby bird's wings, eagerly and cheerily.

Faendal's skeleton, the basic structure on which the elf had been built, appeared to stare at Esbern, but he couldn't care. The Nord was too corrupt, his mind far too wisened to feel squeamish when seeing the dead.

"I am Faendal!" Esbern laughed out, his voice echoing out though the bedroom. Even his voice had been transformed to sound like the elf's.

He flexed his arm, reveling in the feeling of his newfound muscles. This body was as fresh as the fruit in the stands of Whiterun; suddenly, Esbern's once doomed future appeared abundant with opportunity.

Esbern could take revenge on the Dragonborn or even kill the last remaining dragons himself, but neither idea interested him. He already had a plan upon becoming Faendal: he would assume the elf's life. Esbern would return to the small town of Riverwood, which would have felt like retirement for his former, older self. Now, Riverwood seemed like an idyllic town to create a new life.

His life now seemed as young as the town he would venture to.

Esbern would live amongst Riverwood's people, playing the part of a dragon-killing hero returning to home. The idea seemed romantic to the conjurer. Esbern might even make friends and fall in love, only to abandon them at the slightest opportunity. Now that he was young, he could be reckless and impulsive.

He didn't know how long the magic would hold; the conjurer could feel the still surviving presence of Faendal in his skin. Somewhere within his body, the elf's soul still existed.

Even if Esbern had but a day or week to enjoy this new body, he would love to be away from this decrepit temple. The temple, Esbern's body, and now Faendal's skeleton all were defined by decay. The conjurer could not stay and wither amongst these ruins.

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AN: For some crack-tastic reason, I decided to de-age Esbern and slash him together with Sven in future chapters. It's really the only way to make such an insane pairing work. Anyways, should Sven ever realize who Esbern truly is?


End file.
